The Burning Stone

“You’re an abbot now.” Wichman laughed again, not particularly kindly. Ivar didn’t think Wichman liked his young cousin; he tolerated him because he was bored. “You have spiritual fields to tend.”



Ekkehard did not back down easily. “But just yesterday you got a message from Duchess Rotrudis that you were to return to Osterburg to get married. What about that?”



“I burned the message.” Wichman shrugged. “I’ll tell my mother I never received it.”



“I won’t tell her that,” said Ekkehard slyly. “I’ll write to her myself and tell her all about your disobedience.”



Wichman scratched his beard, shifting off his bad leg. “Very well. But it’s your head that’ll hang from a Quman belt, not mine, Cousin.” He didn’t say the words fondly. “You and your companions can ride with me, but I warn you, you must abide by my command. I won’t have you getting the rest of us killed because you’re foolish.”



Ekkehard thought about this, but he wasn’t stupid. “Very well,” he agreed. “Now can we go to hunt?”



One of Wichman’s companions stepped up and whispered in the lord’s ear. “Ah.” He beckoned. A ragged-looking person was brought forward from the rear of his troop. “I’ve a gift for you, a fish my guards netted at the gates last night. He demanded to be let in, said he’d come all the way from Firsebarg in Varre at your express order. But it’s just another monk, and a fat one, at that. I don’t think your lemans will think much of him.” Then Wichman laughed with a sharp grin. “He’s not pretty like the other ones.”



And there he was, looking tired but still stout and untroubled. His bare feet were a mass of sores, and his hair was ragged and grown long, but he was happy to see them.



“Ermanrich!” Baldwin pounded Ermanrich on the back and then led him before Prince Ekkehard, who allowed Ermanrich to kiss his hand and then dismissed him. He was of no further interest.



“Come, Baldwin,” said the prince. “I got you what you wanted. Now we’ll go hunt.”



“I’ll stay behind and make sure he’s tended to,” said Ivar quickly, and Baldwin gave him a quick look, a silent gesture of approval.



Permission was granted. In truth, the young prince cared not one whit whether Ivar stayed or followed. Horses were brought; the prince and his followers mounted and rode away all in good cheer.



Ivar led Ermanrich to the infirmary, empty at this hour except for the infirmarian. That good man regarded Ivar suspiciously and signed Ermanrich to lay down on a cot. He rubbed Ermanrich’s feet with lavender oil, then clipped and combed his tangled hair. After that he left, no doubt to inform Brother Humilicus of this new arrival. Ivar regarded Ermanrich’s feet with awe: the skin on the soles was cracked and dry, as thick and tough as horn. “Did you walk the whole way? Barefoot? In this cold?”



“It took me two months!” cried Ermanrich cheerfully. “And what a fine road it was!” He rolled onto his stomach and tugged up his robe to display his backside. A mass of old welts and stripes marked his rump and back. “The prior at Firsebarg himself whipped me every day because I wouldn’t recant! But I knew God would hear my call.” He let his tattered robe drop and heaved a sigh of relief. “Then Lord Reginar came from Firsebarg and released me to come here, to Gent. I knew God had called me!” Ivar handed him ale and bread, and as he bolted his bread between sloppy swallows of ale, the chanting of monks in the church serenaded them. Ermanrich broke the silence finally. “Do you chant mass at all hours here? They only did that at feast days at Firsebarg.”



“Nay. You heard that Queen Mathilda died?”



“So we did, may she rest in peace. We prayed for a whole week. Then Lord Reginar let me go.”



“The queen bequeathed her computarium to Prince Ekkehard. So the monks here pray for the souls of the dead written into that book—all her dead kinfolk and, oh, as many other people as gave fine gifts to Quedlinhame or did some other service. All those prayers take up most of the day.”



“But I saw Prince Ekkehard ride out to hunt. Isn’t he father here, over the monks? He should be praying, not hunting. The queen’s own computarium! How can he treat it so lightly? Isn’t it his duty to pray for the souls of his dead kinfolk, as she did, so that his prayers here will help lift their souls to the Chamber of Light?”



“I see Brother Ivar has chosen to hold firm to his vows this fine morning and stay here to pray.” The door darkened as Brother Humilicus entered, followed by the infirmarian, who wrung his hands. Humilicus’ dry words always made Ivar wince. “What is this? Another stray taken in by our holy father? But he speaks with good sense. Do you seek to serve God, Brother?” he asked Ermanrich.